


Better With a Buddy

by LoxleyAndBagell



Series: The Ballad of Hoss [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Friendship, bitty is not donna reed, everyone loves dogs, jack 'grand-pere' zimmermann, not even Lardo is immune to the charms of Candy, shitty navigates the Lardonic Law Code through the medium of Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/LoxleyAndBagell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name, according to the paper, was Hoss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better With a Buddy

It had started with a broken lightbulb.

 

In searching for a new lightbulb to replace it, the boys realized the Haus was also lacking a toolkit, a broom, a fireproof box, glue guns (even though sticks of glue were plentiful), extra batteries, and coat hangers, in addition to lightbulbs.

 

Bitty, being the one to discover this problem, was elected to lead the shopping expedition. When asked to select his travel party, he faltered.

 

“Well,” he stammered, “I was assuming—that is—Lardo has a _car,_ so—“

 

Lardo was already getting her boots on. “Well, _yeah,_ Bits, I’m kind of default in that regard. Pick some more.”

 

“Why do multiple people have to go?”

 

Lardo threw Bitty his coat. “They need to get out of the Haus, otherwise they get cranky. Also, supplies shopping is Better With a Buddy. Shitty, you’re my Buddy.”

 

“Ye- _yeah,”_ Shitty cheered over the rest of the assembled Haus’ choruses of “no fucking _duh”_ and “Pick me for the love of christ!”

Still bewildered, Bitty glanced around, eventually stammering, “can I phone a friend?”

 

At that moment, Jack came in through the front door, stomping the snow off his boots. “Hey, we need a new shovel,” he said by way of greeting.

 

“Jack!” said Lardo brightly. “You’re Bitty’s Buddy. Keep your boots on, let’s roll.”

 

 

 

According to the Lardonic Law Code, Expedition Leader got Shotgun and Tunes Authority as long as Tunes stayed within the limits of the radio and what was in the car’s CD box. The Back Seat was a Zone of Silence, save for Singing Along and offering Actual Directions. Shitty, as a Law School Hopeful, found a way to bypass these ancient laws by complying with Singing Along codes, which had nothing against singing words that were not written for the song at the time of its publication, regarding the proposed new lyrics were better than the original.

 

According to Shitty, better lyrics for _Somebody Loves You_ were _“I’m thinking that we should split up down there/ to cover more ground between the hardware store/ and the Target also could we/ get candy possibly.”_

 

Lardo, as Driver, was not bound by these petty laws. “Splitting up is a good idea,” she agreed. “Shitty, you’re with me, because I will say ‘no’ to you getting candy—“

 

_“Ooh, I thought you loved me.”_

 

“—and Jack will say ‘no’ to Bitty getting more flour and butter. We can’t have a repeat of Crepe-ocalypse.”

 

“And why not?” Bitty and Jack asked in offended unison.

 

Astonished, Bitty twisted his head to see Jack, to see if he was experiencing auditory hallucinations or something far more peculiar. Jack, for his part, couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to direct his bug-eyed look of vexed surprise at Bitty or Lardo.

 

Shitty pulled Jack to be shoulder-to-shoulder with him, still singing: _“If you’re gonna indicate to the/ driver your thoughts without subjugation/ to her right to fucking stop this/ Paleolithic death-trap/ and throw your magnificently/ shaped and corded ass out then you fucking sing.”_

 

 

Jack and Bitty acquired the toolkit, fireproof box, and batteries without incident. They could also boast, among their acquisitions, a bottle of hand soap that was probably as big as Bitty and another sixteen-pack of paper towels.

 

“Lardo says to meet them in front of the book store,” Bitty reported from his phone as they exited the hardware store.

 

Jack hefted his bag under his arm. “Which one? There’s the used one, and the big one.”

 

Bitty raised an eyebrow at him. Genuinely curious, Jack asked, “what?”

 

“I’m willing to bet they meant the big one.”

 

Jack narrowed his eyes at him and playfully shoved at Bitty with his elbow. “Just ask.”

 

“Okay, Gramps,” Bitty giggled, ducking his head to text Lardo _“Grand-Pere wants to make sure you meant the ‘Big One’ and not the used bookstore.”_

“What do you mean _‘Grand-Pere?’_ You can’t fucking talk, Donna Reed.”

 

“Few things wrong with that chirp: I don’t talk, I Tweet and actually know how gifs work. Also, who is going to make Donna Reed jokes except for an actual Grandpa?”

 

“Ah,” Jack countered, grinning wickedly, “who else but a fellow octogenarian is gonna _get_ the Donna Reed joke?”

 

Before he could snipe back, Bitty’s phone buzzed with a response from Lardo.

 

“Hold up, you’ll get yours later,” he muttered as he read. “All right, she and Shitty found a new soap-pump, and a pack of swiffer-pads, so they’ll actually be a little late meeting us, but they’re checking out right now, and—“

 

He stopped once he realized nobody was listening to him and he had walked at least five steps talking to himself.

 

“Jack?” He turned around, perplexed, catching sight of Jack stopped stock-still in front of a store window.

 

Was it a display of some kind? Bitty braced himself for whatever northern nonsense awaited him as he hustled over to Jack; whatever gasoline-powered hockey stick or mink-fur maple syrup that was so captivating to that boy right now would have to wait.

 

“Jack, is something wrong? What—oh.”

 

It was a window display, for sure.

 

The shop seemed to be an office for the local Humane Society, and the window was plastered with posters with profiles of animals and their information—cats, rabbits, parrots, dogs, snakes, the whole (state-legal) kit and caboodle. Bitty let his eyes wander over the glossy pictures and their attached profiles, glancing over names and eyes and periodically noting personality and health quirks.

 

Jack’s attention, he soon noticed, was fixed on one particular dog. The creature in the photo had the look of a broad Labrador, with rusty orange fur and what looked like a white mask. Bitty wondered if there really was a mask on the dog’s face, considering the lack of visible eyes, but a glance at the profile told him that the (one-year-old female) dog was blind, and missing a hind leg.

 

Her name, according to the paper, was Hoss.

 

“That’s a name,” Bitty laughed.

 

Jack looked enraptured. “She’s _perfect,”_ he whispered reverently.

 

Bitty knew what his face was doing; he was making a face as if Jack had spontaneously sprouted a third head. The least he could do, he figured, was not spin on Jack. Maybe, he thought, if he turned his head slowly, Jack would have time to collect himself and think about what just came out of his mouth.

 

In the seven seconds Bitty took, Jack hadn’t relented.

 

“Jack,” Bitty said carefully, “while you are living in the Haus, you are not getting a dog.”

 

Jack’s hands raised slowly to his mouth as though in prayer and his eyes widened. “’She likes living in a house with lots of older kids to play with and take care of her and rub her tummy’,” he read from the profile.

 

“We live in campus housing.”

 

“She’s _non-shedding.”_

“As far as I’m aware, none of us need service dogs.”

 

“Bittle,” Jack finally looked at him, blue eyes soft but determined and voice rough as though holding back tears, _“I really like this dog.”_

For a brief moment, Bitty could do nothing but open his mouth, and then close it again.

 

He quickly recovered. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” he pronounced, “I was very nearly rendered speechless by the sheer absurdity of this scenario. The true tragedy of this otherwise magnificently situated moment is the fact that I _could_ give you a thousand comparisons, tell you a thousand more fables of men who have been tempted as you are tempted and succumbed and subsequently met their doom, but you would not recognize them.

 

“They say, Monsieur Zimmermann, that the tragedy of these men is that they heeded not the warning of their friends. Do not let this be said of you. I give you warning now: _do not join those men, and walk away now.”_

“What are we walking away from?” Shitty’s voice asked, coming up behind them. Bitty felt one hand clap heavily upon his shoulder, and a white paper bag was held under his nose.

 

“Squirrel Nut Zippers, my friend,” Shitty explained. “That most dignified of confectionaries, the royalest of goodies, the candies you whistle, the whistles you— _eat my ass and call it a raisin danish, who is **that**?”_

Jack’s attention went back to the poster, and Shitty swiftly whipped off his hat, expression rapturous.

 

Lardo came up behind Bitty, ruffling his hair. “Hey, dude, this is neither the old-man bookstore or the new one—oh, what fresh frilly hell is this?”

 

“I did not live until today,” whispered Shitty.

 

Bitty frowned mournfully at Lardo. “I don’t know how to stop this. I tried, lord knows I did, but I wasn’t strong enough.”

 

“Her name,” Jack announced, as if it were a title at a ball, “is Hoss.”

 

 

 

They drove back in silence, except for the traffic report fizzing in on the radio. Shitty and Jack had spent the first part of the drive in the back seat, texting back and forth passionately, until Shitty had fallen asleep on Jack’s shoulder.

 

Bitty, for his part, would have fallen asleep as well, were it not for the tense air in the car; he could feel Jack’s eyes boring into the back of his seat and into his skull, his disappointment and pining heartache palpable, with subtle flavors of Simmering Vengeance wafting about.

 

Lardo, for her part, was tense, concentrating on the road and some other dark plot that Bitty had a sour feeling about.

 

Overall, the car was as full of discomfort and malcontent as Shitty was full of Squirrel Nut Zippers.

 

It wasn’t until they were out of the car in front of the Haus that speech was permitted again to the back seat passengers. In spite of this, silence prevailed as they unloaded their goods from the car, put the new shovel away, and went inside.

 

Dex quickly volunteered himself and Chowder to put things away in the storage closet, sensing the tension almost immediately. As Lardo, Bitty, and their passengers shook snow off themselves and peeled their way out of their coats, Ransom took the dive and asked what was up.

 

Bitty, of course, had plenty to say, and he opened his mouth to say it. Jack, having mentally prepared for this moment in the car, opened his own mouth to speak a piece of his own mind, and Shitty was already opening his second bag of candy to throw pieces to people, but Lardo stopped them all by taking out her phone, tapping at it, then tossing it to Ransom.

 

“Check it out,” she suggested as he caught it.

 

Ransom gasped. “Blood of _Jesus.”_

Holster was quick to see it next, and his eyes went wide as he slowly removed his glasses, jaw dropping open.

 

The phone was quickly passed around, and the picture was met with all sorts of soft coos and equally soft, yet vibrantly colorful, curses.

 

It was a petty one, but Jack did love a good victory, even over Bitty. He grinned at Bitty, who could have leveled forests with the cold, dead rage in his eyes.

 

“Hey,” Chowder called down from the stairs, “what’s all this?”

 

Swelling with pride and holding Bitty’s gaze, Jack announced, “we may be getting a dog.”

 

“Oh, _‘swawesome!”_ he cheered. He sobered quickly, though, and asked, “also, were those all the bags from the car?”

 

Surprised, Jack unintentionally deflated a little. “Yessss?” he answered slowly.

 

“Oh. Then you forgot the lightbulbs.”

**Author's Note:**

> I made a mistake and this might become a series. Forgive me.


End file.
